


i can make it there (new york, new york)

by CaptainOfRed



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, BAMF Grell Sutcliff, Female Pronouns for Grell Sutcliff, Grell Deserves the World, Humor, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Transphobia, Ronald Knox is Bisexual, The Stonewall Riots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25696288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOfRed/pseuds/CaptainOfRed
Summary: Grelle Sutcliff stood in the middle of her bedroom, presiding elegantly over several fit-to-bursting suitcases. In one hand, she held a glass of red wine; with the other, she clutched her cell phone to her ear.“Toothbrush, toothpaste?” Grelle questioned into the phone.“Yes and yes,” Ronald replied irritably. “I’m not a child, Senpai.”...In June of 1969, Grelle and Ronald briefly transport to New York. A lot can happen in a month - Candy Crush Saga can replace your capacity for paperwork, your stick-in-the-mud boss can find love, and you can kickstart the most significant LGBT+ protest in history.
Relationships: Ronald Knox & Grell Sutcliff, William T. Spears/Original Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	i can make it there (new york, new york)

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer number one: i am not a trans woman, so my representation of grelle's struggles are based on my imagination and the testimonies of others.  
> disclaimer number two: stonewall was before my time. my representation of the riot is based on the wikipedia page as well as what i felt worked for this fic.  
> disclaimer number three: i've never played candy crush saga in my life lol so if my descriptions of it are sus, that's why
> 
> title from New York, New York by Frank Sinatra

_Late May, 1969_

“Dammit,” Grelle hissed, tossing her cell phone onto her desk in a fit of frustration. Papers fluttered from the impact.

Ronald, pretending to do paperwork on the other side of their shared office, raised his head. “What’s up?”

“Candy Crush,” Grelle said flatly. 

No further explanation was necessary. “Ah,” Ronald said with a sympathetic frown. He returned to his work. 

The Reaper Realm was leagues ahead of humanity in technological development. While the humans would wait another forty years for Candy Crush, the game had swept through the English Dispatch like hellfire. William had grown increasingly distraught as his reapers were caught in Candy Crush’s sticky-sweet web. 

“I _can’t stop,”_ Grelle lamented, snatching up her phone again. Her red fingernails clicked against the screen as she dove into the game once more. “This level is just _impossible,_ Ronnie. I have to _win.”_

Ronald sighed and gave into the siren song of mobile games. The wheels of his chair squeaked as he glided across their shared office. “Which is it?” He asked, peering over Grelle’s shoulder. “Oh, that one gave me trouble too, Senpai. You’ve gotta…” He reached over Grelle’s shoulder to poke at her screen. 

Grelle glared and swatted half-heartedly at Ronald’s hand. “I can do it _myself --_ wait, wait, what are you doing with the blue ones. _Ronnie.”_

“I’m just trying to help! Look, now the red ones --”

“Don’t do it all yourself, it’s _my_ game -- _Ronald!”_

“Do you wanna win or not? _Ouch,_ your heels are _sharp,_ Senpai!”

A knock at the door and a cool voice interrupted their squabbling. “It’s Spears.”

“Oh shit,” Ronald said. He aggressively freewheeled back to his desk and scrambled for any type of paperwork; Grelle shoved her phone into a drawer and frantically searched for a pen. 

When the door swung open, Grelle and Ronald both looked the epitome of the productive reaper. “Hey, Boss!” Ronald chirped, shuffling papers. 

“Will-darling!” Grelle cooed, a pen poised between her fingers.

Will eyed them suspiciously. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Our colleagues in New York are temporarily short-staffed. They’ve requested we send extra hands. I volunteered you two.”

“My, my, you’re straight to the point,” Grelle observed with a cheeky grin. 

“Why us?” Protested Ronald, who probably had at least ten dates scheduled for the upcoming days. “Actually, why is _New York_ asking _England?_ They’ve got like five neighbors, don’t they?”

William compulsively adjusted his glasses; beneath them, he seemed unusually pink. “I’m friends with New York’s Head of Management.”

_“What,”_ Grelle yelped, jumping out of her seat. Will did not have _friends --_ he had _colleagues._ She planted her hands on her desk and stared accusingly at William. “You’re _blushing,_ William!”

William directed his trademarked disapproving frown in her direction. “I am not.”

“You totally are,” Ronald agreed with Grelle. 

“You’re _sleeping with_ New York’s Head of Management,” Grelle gaped, apparently a mixture of jealous and shocked. Regardless, she flashed a congratulatory grin; it would be rude to be anything but happy for someone she called a friend. “Darling, I never thought I’d see the day.”

“That’s enough,” William said gruffly. “Honestly. Anyways, you’ll be in America for the entirety of June. Please prepare yourselves accordingly.”

His business complete, William turned to leave. Ronald exclaimed, “Wait, wait. Why _us?_ I’ve got plans in June, y’know.”

“You have plans for June _already?”_ Grelle demanded. She sighed, fondly exasperated. “I should probably expect that by now.”

Will’s gaze turned judicious. “You’ve been chosen because the two of you are worth at least five reapers. It is a compliment.”

“Oh, Will,” Grelle fanned herself, smiling bashfully. “I’m flattered to _death!”_

Ronald beamed and saluted. “Thanks, Boss."

“You’re welcome,” Will said with a nod. “That being said, will the both of you _please_ turn in your paperwork. I know you’re playing that ridiculous mobile game instead.”

_May 31st, 1969_

Grelle Sutcliff stood in the middle of her bedroom, presiding elegantly over several fit-to-bursting suitcases. In one hand, she held a glass of red wine; with the other, she clutched her cell phone to her ear. 

“Toothbrush, toothpaste?” Grelle questioned into the phone.

“Yes and yes,” Ronald replied irritably. “I’m not a _child,_ Senpai.”

Grelle’s eyes narrowed. She glared at her cell phone as if it were Ronald, not just a conductor of his voice. “Last time we traveled together, you forgot to bring underwear and I had to lend you _mine._ Do you want a repeat of that experience, Ronald?”

_“No,”_ said Ronald vehemently. “I’ll have you know I packed _extra_ underwear, this time.”

“Well done,” Grelle commended. “Shampoo, conditioner?”

“I don’t use conditioner. I’m not a girl.”

_“Ronald._ Hair conditioner is not a gendered product!”

“Whatever, Senpai. I’ve got shampoo.”

“Hairbrush?”

“...Oh, oops. I’ll grab one.”

Grelle tutted. Smirking and twirling a strand of hair around her pointer finger, she informed Ronald, “You’re so lucky I’m here, darling.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ronald grumbled in reply. 

Grelle cast a critical glance over her open suitcases, admiring the abundance of red. She greatly anticipated the New York fashion scene. The 50s had been fun, but the 60s were a _glorious_ decade for fashion, in Grelle’s un-humble opinion -- the arrival of the miniskirt was a benediction. And those mod dresses were _so_ fun...

“What do you think she’s like?” Ronald asked suddenly.

“Hm?”

“Will’s girlfriend,” Ronald specified. A grin was audible in his voice. 

Grelle’s mood soured. “She’s probably no fun,” she groused. “I bet all they can talk about is work.” 

“Maybe,” Ronald agreed. _“Or_ maybe she can loosen that stick up his ass.”

“Not possible,” Grelle declared dramatically. “It has been firmly lodged for hundreds of years.”

Ronald burst into laughter; Grelle fell helpless to giggles as well, her heart lightened by Ronald’s cheer.

_June 1st, 1969_

Grim reapers were gifted with the ability of teleportation -- it would be quite challenging to conduct the job were it otherwise, due to all the necessary travel between mortal and immortal planes.

But not all grim reapers were created equal. For some, teleportation was as easy as swinging a standard-issue scythe. For others, the journey from one point to another was equated to punching through a brick wall.

“I’m glad you’re better at this than I am,” Ronald commented as he and Grelle materialized in the New York Division of Grim Reaper Dispatch. He released Grelle’s arm, but not without jostling her playfully. “Imagine the two of us stuck on a plane for an entire day because neither of us could make the ‘port.”

New York’s Dispatch was very similar to England’s -- grand, white, and suspended in a perpetually beautiful spring afternoon. The most obvious difference was in the traffic that bustled around Grelle and Ronald. While the English offices were regularly full of mingling chatter, the reapers of New York politely swept past each other without making eye contact.

Grelle shot him a contemptuous glance. “‘The two of us stuck on a plane’ -- what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that we’d draw a lot of stares, right?” Ronald explained. They began moving with traffic toward the tall, pearly building belonging to Management. “Your teeth. My good looks.”

Grelle snorted. “My teeth are far from my only impressive feature, darling.” She flipped her hair, one of those many features, as emphasis. As of recently, it only reached her waist. The long tresses had caught in her scythe during a particularly challenging reap and forced her into chopping it (Grelle shuddered at the memory). 

“Yeah, you’ve also got impressive earrings,” Ronald said, eyeing the jewelry in question. “What _are_ those?”

“This type of thing is all the range _,_ Ronald!” Grelle exclaimed, shaking her head slightly so the large earrings bounced against her cheeks. They were heavy and heart-shaped and in a fetching shade of pink (Grelle did not discriminate between shades of red). “Stop making that face. It’s _fashion.”_

“If you say so, Senpai.”

The pair of them finally crossed the threshold of Management. The inside was as grand and clean as the outside, outfitted with golden chandeliers that cast warm light over its inhabitants. Ronald whistled softly as he observed them. “Much fancier than back home,” he evaluated. 

“I think Will would combust at such frivolous decoration,” Grelle concluded. “Enough sightseeing. Let’s find a secretary and get down to business.”

“Yes’m,” Ronald replied jovially, trailing along Grelle’s crimson wake. 

There were several secretaries acting as a barrier between the lobby and the innards of Dispatch, checking IDs and administrating directions. Grelle led Ronald to the first one that appeared derelict. 

“Good afternoon,” Grelle told him, tacking on a friendly, flirty grin. “We’re Seniors Grelle Sutcliff and Ronald Knox, temporary transfers from England.”

The secretary's eyes widened as Grelle spoke. “You -- _you’re_ Grelle Sutcliff?” 

Grelle’s confident smile wavered into a frown. “Yes, that’s me.”

He blinked and visibly gathered himself, pasting on an apologetic smile. “Um. Sorry, sir. Now --”

“It’s ma’am.” Grelle interjected coldly. 

“Oh -- um, sorry, ma’am.” The secretary's acidic eyes flickered over Grelle’s figure. “Um, I’ll need to see your IDs.”

Ronald was carrying both of their cards -- Grelle’s women’s pants didn’t have pockets. He handed them over without comment.

The secretary glanced at the cards impassionately. His eyes lingered over the words _Miss Grelle Sutcliff._ In the end, he nodded and returned their IDs. “Everything looks good. I’ll direct you to our Head of Management, Aubrey Montgomery. Please head down that hallway, there, and then…”

After saying their thank you's and turning away, Ronald gently nudged Grelle’s shoulder. Tentatively, he asked, “You alright?”

Grelle’s response was tetchy and defensive. “I’m not made of _glass,_ Ronald.”

After a moment, Ronald agreed. “You’re not.”

Aubrey Montgomery’s private office, boasting two wide, frosted-glass doors, punctuated the very end of a long, echoing hallway. Grelle and Ronald paused before it and looked contemplative.

“Will’s girlfriend,” Grelle mused, wondering what to expect. Ronald knocked. 

“Come in,” came a deeper voice than expected. 

Ever a friend and gentleman, Ronald opened the door for Grelle. She stepped inside and coughed to hide her very immediate, very considerable surprise. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” she managed to say. Just behind her, Ronald echoed the statement, sounding a tad strained. 

Aubrey Montgomery, the very male Head of Management, stood from his desk to warmly welcome them. “Good afternoon. Take a seat, let’s talk.”

Grelle and Ronald obeyed, both feeling the strange embarrassment that follows making an incorrect assumption. 

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” Montgomery began, flattening his hands over his desk. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm as he spoke. “You’re Sutcliff --” he nodded at Grelle, “ -- and you’re Knox?” 

“Right on,” Ronald said, apparently recovered from his shock. 

“Excellent,” Montgomery pronounced cheerfully. He was handsome in a quiet, soft way that wasn’t obvious until he smiled. “I’m sure Will told you all about our staffing issues.”

_Will?_ Ronald mouthed incredulously to himself. A businesswoman if there ever was one, Grelle smiled politely and said, “Only that you have one.”

“In short, several of our agents in Retrieval achieved forgiveness at roughly the same time -- yes, it’s an unprecedented occurrence,” Montgomery explained breezily. “And we were _already_ understaffed. Until the academy releases the next batch of agents at the end of this month, we’ll be dreadfully short-handed. Will was very kind to offer me the pair of you.”

“Mm-hm,” Ronald and Grelle agreed, both surprised by the combination of _Will_ and _kind_ in a sentence. 

“I understand that back home, you oversee your own team, Mr. Sutcliff,” Montgomery said. 

Grelle’s eye twitched. “It’s Miss,” she said. “But otherwise, you’re correct.”

A pause. “I apologize,” said Montgomery evenly. “As I was saying -- although you have your own team at home, I can’t offer you the same luxury here. You’ll be working with one of our previously established, recently understaffed teams.” His smile brightened. “But I _can_ offer the two of you a private office.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ronald said. Grelle offered a deferential nod, her face impassive. 

Montgomery provided them with their new office number, the contact information of their new teammates, and general information about the New York Dispatch. There was even a neatly-organized pamphlet, containing a map. Ronald, rotten with directions, took one gratefully. 

Despite Montgomery’s altruistic manners, both Grelle and Ronald were glad to exit his office. 

“He said William is _kind,”_ Ronald said in disbelief. “And he was like, serious.”

“Kind,” Grelle scoffed. She seized Ronald’s sleeve and tugged him down the hall; he complained only half-heartedly. “If Will was _kind_ he would have sent over our fucking correct information.”

Grelle did not often swear. Ronald cast her a wary glance. “Maybe he didn’t send anything at all. Since he’s close with Montgomery, he may have just word-of-mouthed it.”

“Whatever.” Grelle grinned bitterly. “I’ll reintroduce him to my scythe once we’re home.”

They walked in silence. Finally, Ronald murmured, “I’m sorry, Senpai.”

Grelle bristled, but she addressed Ronald courteously. “It’s certainly not your fault, Ronnie-dear.”

After another pause, Ronald addressed the other elephant in the room. “Senpai, Will’s girlfriend is his _boyfriend.”_

“I _know!”_ Grelle exclaimed. “I _totally_ thought he was straight.”

“You made me think so, too,” Ronald accused. 

“Well, I drew a logical conclusion,” Grelle sniffed. “In our academy days, when I still presented as a man, he told me I’m not his type! I mean, what else could he have meant -- that he didn’t like redheads?”

Ronald, thinking Will could have meant a _host_ of other things, rolled his eyes. 

“But all these years, he’s continued to deny _me,_ a beautiful woman, his affections,” Grelle continued forlornly. “I guess I should have known.”

“Your intellect is unparalleled, Senpai,” Ronald said long-sufferingly. “Really.”

_June 2nd, 1969_

“It’s Miss,” Grelle said tiredly. Stifling a sigh, she glared at the administrative reaper. “How long will this take?”

“Just a few minutes,” softly replied the reaper. She clutched Grelle’s precious scythe, turning it over in her hands and admiring its shining blade. “You can wait there,” she said distractedly, indicating the lobby of Administration. 

Annoyed at the lack of apology, Grelle swept away without replying.

Minutes later, as promised, the admin called Grelle’s name. Grelle eagerly strolled to the counter, missing the security of her scythe at her side. 

The admin was holding the chainsaw with a reverence Grelle usually only saw in herself. “This is a _magnificent_ piece of engineering,” she gushed, reluctantly relinquishing it to Grelle. “You customized it yourself, sir?”

Grelle caressed the handle. “Yes,” she said. With a fluid, sharp movement, she relocated the blade to rest at her new colleague's throat. “And it’s _ma’am.”_

After revving the blade for emphasis, Grelle twirled away. She drew many eyes as she swept from Administration. 

_June 3rd, 1969_

In London, William T. Spears snipped a Cinematic Record with exact precision. “No special remarks,” he murmured to himself. 

As he left the body, sweeping imperceptibly through the humans crowding the scene, his cell phone vibrated. William retrieved the device with more eagerness than you might expect from such a cold, efficient man. 

In their virtual chess game, Aubrey had maneuvered him into check. How annoying. William noted the time: 10 am. His next reap was scheduled for 10:14 am. William decided this was enough time to make his move. 

_Rook to C7,_ William commanded the app, thereby foiling Aubrey’s plans. William wore a faint smile as he ‘ported to his next reap.

As he materialized amid the quiet scene -- an old woman would pass peacefully in her sleep -- his phone buzzed once more. 

William prepared to thwart Aubrey once more, but it was not chess that requested his attention. It was Retrieval Agent Ronald Knox.

_Knox: Did you send Grelle’s correct information to New York?_

William’s brow furrowed. 

_Spears: I did not send either of your files. That job was executed by a lower employee of Management._

_Knox: Well whoever it was sent Grelle’s old file. From before her request to change her registered gender was granted._

William’s eye twitched. How troublesome. 

_Spears: Please convey to her my apologies. I will oversee the transfer of the correct files myself._

_Knox: Thanks, boss._

William sighed. In Grelle and Ronald’s absence, he was forced to return to the field to reap souls they usually would have taken care of. On top of that annoyance, he would now have to sift through the grunts of Management to find the perpetrator. How _tedious_. When the old woman’s Cinematic Records burst from her chest, William lanced them with more force than necessary. 

As William stamped his ledger (complete, no special remarks), his phone begged his attention once more. “What now,” he muttered, offering it a cursory glance. 

_Checkmate!_ The chess app informed him. A moment later, Aubrey texted: _Take that!!!_

“Honestly,” William said, but his frown curved into a smile.

_June 5th, 1969_

“Your partner’s a piece of work,” said one of Ronald’s new team members, observing Grelle’s deadly dance around an irksome, young demon. 

Ronald leaned lazily on his death scythe, grinning as he tracked Grelle’s movements. He and his companion, David, had been sent in as backup, but Grelle obviously didn’t need their help. “Yeah, Senpai’s definitely unique.”

David raised his voice to be heard over Grelle’s roaring scythe. _“‘Senpai’?_ Aren’t you two English?”

"That's our Dispatch, but Grelle’s Japanese and I used to be her junior, so I called her that as a joke.” Ronald shrugged and flashed a buoyant smile. “It stuck.”

Grelle whooped suddenly, drawing their attention. Her whirring death scythe was buried in the choking demon’s chest. Completely in her element, she let out an exuberant cackle. “Next time, you’ll think twice before hitting a lady!” She crowed to her victim. 

“Grelle’s a _girl?”_ David sounded perplexed. 

_This again._ “Yeah,” Ronald said flatly. “It’s on her card, which she handed you when we met. And I mean, c’mon. Look at how she dresses, man.”

Today, Grelle donned a lengthy, flared dress shirt that boasted an orderly line of diamond buttons. Her cheetah-printed pants were fitted to her legs and tucked neatly into her bright-red go-go boots. Ronald didn’t quite understand her taste, but he admitted the garish fashion of the 60s suited Grelle’s arabesque personality. 

“Sorry, he just --” David sputtered awkwardly. He finished his statement with _fantastic_ timing -- just as Grelle had silenced her chainsaw. “Uh, she doesn’t _look_ like a girl, y’know.”

One minute, Grelle was standing akimbo over her prey; the next, she was shoving her blood-stained scythe into David’s startled face. “How can I convince you?” Grelle hissed, revving the motor. David scrambled backward with wide eyes. Grelle advanced on him, her grin that of a predator. “Should I _undress,_ darling? We can _play.”_

Thinking that David had been suitably terrified, Ronald intervened, placing a hand on Grelle’s shoulder. “Hey, c’mon, Senpai. Chill out.”

Grelle stared at David a moment longer, vibrating with adrenaline and fury, before lowering her scythe. “You’re a good influence, Ronald,” she said scathingly. Grelle turned on her heel; in the next instance, she had vanished.

“Dammit,” Ronald muttered, annoyed that he would have to ‘port himself back to Dispatch. It was a much smoother journey on Grelle’s arm.

“Holy shit,” David whispered. “She’s crazy.”

“She’s a lot of things,” Ronald said mildly. “Hey, are you any good at ‘porting?”

_June 10th, 1969_

Grelle entered, slammed the door, and threw herself into her chair. Her hands slapped the top of her desk; papers fluttered from the impact. She took deep, steadying breaths.

Ronald, pretending to do paperwork on the other side of their shared office, eyed her warily. “What’s up?”

Grelle put her head in her hands, her shoulders a slumping line of defeat. Ronald sat up in his chair, his caution melting into concern. “I was so excited to come to New York,” she said dejectedly. 

Ronald immediately understood the source of her misery. “Ah,” he said with a sympathetic frown. 

“I’ve spent hundreds of years in England,” Grelle said into her palms. “Everyone knows me back home. It’s taken _years,_ but everyone knows _me._ Miss Sutcliff. Here, it’s like…” Grelle growled. “It’s like I have to reintroduce myself _every fucking day_ to _every fucking person_ I meet.”

“I mean.” Ronald struggled with what to say, not able to truly understand Grelle’s frustrations. _“I_ know you.”

“Yeah, you do,” Grelle said weakly. She resurfaced from her hands, wiping furiously under her glasses. “Thank you, Ronnie. It would have been terrible if I’d been sent here alone.”

“Aw shucks, Senpai.” Ronald smiled. Hesitantly, he proposed, “Would you like a hug?”

Grelle sniffled. She gazed gloomily at her hands, clasped tight in her lap. “...That would be nice.”

Ronald scooted his chair across the room until he reached Grelle. Tentatively, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

“Thanks,” Grelle murmured, briefly resting her head against Ronald’s collarbone. After a pause, she said, “Although, this would be more fun if you were a more exciting guy.”

“This again,” Ronald muttered with an amused snort, pulling away. “Weren’t you just saying how lucky you are that I’m here, Senpai?”

Grelle grinned; a spark had returned to her eyes. “I said it’d be unpleasant being here alone. _You’re_ the one who read into it.”

Ronald grinned and pitched his voice up, fluttering his eyelashes in an imitation of Grelle. “You’re so _cold,_ so _aloof...”_

“That is _not_ how I sound, Ronald!”

_June 17th, 1969_

Like the English Dispatch, New York possessed an impressive cafeteria, offering cuisine from numerous locations of the world. New York’s reapers tended to agree the Chinese was quite good; the Mexican, not so much. 

Grelle and Ronald were bent over Candy Crush, allowing their lo mein to grow cold, when Aubrey Montgomery slid into the seat opposite them. 

“Good afternoon,” he disclosed, startling them from their sugary vigil. “I should have done this sooner but I haven’t had the chance -- how are you two enjoying New York?”

Grelle and Ronald shared a furtive glance. Definitively, Ronald answered cheerily, “It’s certainly different from home!” 

Montgomery nodded with a faint smile. “Yes, I imagine so. From what Will tells me, your Dispatch is less extravagant.”

“Golden chandeliers certainly aren’t standard back home,” Grelle said wryly. 

Sensing an opportunity, Ronald asked smoothly, “So how did you meet Mister Spears?” Grelle visibly perked up, waiting anxiously for the answer.

“Hm,” Montgomery hummed, his suddenly ruminative gaze drifting away. Ronald nudged Grelle urgently, mouthing _oh my god._ Grelle impatiently fluttered her hands in his direction. “We met in person at an international meeting, but we had been chatting for some time online.”

Grelle muffled a squeal in her hands. Ronald prodded, “Online?”

“Yes, we both frequent a particular chess-playing app,” Montgomery affirmed. His distracted grin turned mischievous. “I defeated him several times before he struck up a conversation.”

“So assertive,” Grelle whispered, her complexion on the pink side. 

Montgomery leaned forward slightly. “He _is,”_ he whispered conspiratorially. Blushing, he continued, “He visits me quite often, even without calling first.”

“No way,” Ronald said in an almost-whisper. Grelle’s hands remained clamped over her mouth.

Montgomery nodded with a soft smile. His fingers rapped compulsively on the table. “Yes. He’s quite sweet, even if he is tight-lipped. He hardly told me a thing about you two, for instance.” 

“What _did_ he tell you?” Grelle removed her hands from her mouth to ask curiously. Remembering her initial reception on Day 1, she prepared herself for the worst.

“That both of you are highly skilled -- particularly you, Miss Sutcliff,” Montgomery nodded in her direction. “He emphasized your skill with a scythe.”

“Oh,” Grelle murmured. She fanned herself, highly flattered. 

“And Will told me that you had been trained by Sutcliff, Mr. Knox, so I should therefore expect the same from you,” Montgomery continued magnanimously. He spread his hands. “That’s the whole of it, though.”

“Huh,” Ronald said. “Don’t know what I expected.”

“He’s so concise, so astute,” Grelle said dreamily, apparently to herself. 

Anyone else would have sent Grelle an odd glance; Montgomery instead nodded emphatically, probably because he shared Grelle’s rosy opinion of England’s Head of Management. “He only says what he needs to. That’s why, um.” Suddenly awkward, Montgomery shifted and looked askance. “I was unaware of your preferred pronouns, Miss Sutcliff. I again apologize.”

A pleased smile took up Grelle’s face; some of her tension slipped away. “Thank you, darling.”

“Of course,” Montgomery said, looking relieved that his head remained on his shoulders (rumors of Grelle’s quick temper had traveled quickly around the office). “Well, I must be on my way. Thank you for the conversation.”

“Goodbye, sir,” Grelle and Ronald chorused politely. 

As he left, Grelle said, “So Will’s type is plain, boring men like you, Ronnie.”

“Heyyy,” Ronald chastised. _“Geez,_ I didn’t need to know all that stuff about Mister Spears.”

“But it’s _so_ thrilling to know, isn’t it?” Grelle gushed, resting her chin on her hands. “Oh, he must be as bold and authoritative as I’ve imagined…”

_“Really,_ Senpai.” Ronald shook his head. “Hey, we didn’t finish that level. With the green ones.”

Grelle snapped into action. “The green ones,” she glowered. 

_June 25th, 1969_

Grelle was standing stock-still in a damp alleyway, studying a Cinematic Record with aching surprise.

She would not have been assigned this reap at home, Grelle was sure. Grelle’s job as a grim reaper was to judge impassionately, impassively. She was struggling to do so at the moment. 

“Jacqueline Ann Matthews,” Grelle murmured, tracing with her eyes the bloody figure of the trans woman at her feet. “Born in 1939 to parents John and Sarah Matthews. Beaten to death on June 17th, 1969.” A stray reel of film attempted to wrap around Grelle’s wrist; she slapped it away with an affronted glance. 

Grelle knelt over Jacqueline and gently closed her eyes. “My darling, death is ever kinder than life,” she murmured. “And there is no place for you but Heaven.”

Using the hem of her blouse, Grelle blotted blood and tears from Jacqueline’s unmoving face. Once Grelle finished this task, she searched through her own pockets for spare makeup; there was usually at least a tube of gloss floating about her person. 

“You’re in luck,” Grelle told Jacqueline, emerging victorious with both lipstick and mascara. “A lady must always look her best, you know,” she said, assiduously swiping the lipstick -- scarlet -- over Jacqueline’s lips. “Especially for that grand event, _death.”_ Grelle refreshed Jacqueline’s mascara with a steady, solicitous hand. 

With a final caress of Jacqueline’s cold cheek, Grelle rose to her feet. “No special remarks,” Grelle whispered.

_June 26th, 1969_

Ronald entered the shared office cautiously. Grelle had been in a rotten mood since the day previous. She hadn’t even looked up when Ronald requested a second set of eyes for a particularly tough level on Candy Crush. 

“Hey, Senpai,” he said with a wave. 

Grelle was repeatedly clicking a pen, staring gloomily at her paperwork. “Hello, dear,” she replied absently. 

“I’ve got news,” Ronald said, knocking his fist on her desk. Setting her pen aside, Grelle looked up. “The future Missus Spears just stopped me on the way here -- he says the academy is releasing the juniors sooner than expected.”

Grelle’s eyebrows shot hopefully into her crimson hairline. “Really? So...we can go home?”

“Yup!” Ronald grinned. New York was nice enough -- that American accent was certainly cute -- but Ronald missed his old haunts. “The juniors will start tomorrow, so we’re free to go on the 28th.”

Grelle’s face slowly brightened. “Ronnie, you definitely know how to cheer a girl up.”

“So I’ve been told,” Ronald said smugly. He dropped into his rolling desk chair and spun it in circles. “Hey, we should go out tomorrow night. Bar-hop, or something.”

Flattered despite herself, Grelle giggled. “I’m surprised you’re asking me and not some pretty young thing.”

“You’re _old_ and pretty,” Ronald said affectionately. “It’ll do.”

Grelle gasped, pressing a hand to her breastbone. _“Ronald!_ You wound a lady so.”

Ronald grinned. He raised a hand and bent his fingers into the shape of a gun; he mimed shooting a bullet into Grelle’s chest. _“Pew,”_ he said for emphasis. “Anyway -- didn’t you wanna see New York? You were so excited about the fashion and club scene or whatever.”

Grelle _had_ gushed an inordinate amount to Ronald in the days leading up to their departure. A tad sheepish, she said, “Well, I had thought New York would be a fresh experience. _Instead,_ I’ve been in a mood ever since we arrived.”

“Understandably so,” Ronald reminded her. _“C’mon,_ let’s go out, Senpai. I wanna party at least a little before we go home.”

Grelle eyed him skeptically. “You mean to tell me you _haven’t_ been, since we’ve been here?”

“In all honesty?” Ronald ruffled his hair lazily. “New York isn’t really my scene. I went out our first week, with some cute boy from Personnel, but it’s just not home.” Ronald shrugged. “I miss London.”

Grelle bit her lip, nodding her desolate agreement. “Me too,” she whispered. Brighter, she suggested, “But maybe we _should_ try to have fun before we leave.”

“Then it’s settled.” Ronald smiled. “You, me, tomorrow night."

Grelle rested her cheek on her hand and gazed happily at her companion. “Any ideas for where we should start?”

“I’ve heard a few of our more colorful colleagues mention a particular place,” Ronald said with a grin. “Stonewall Inn.”

_June 27th, 1969_

_11:30 pm_

Grelle wore her prettiest dress and her highest heels. She hung heavy, shining diamonds from her ears; she painted her face with crimson and black. 

She lingered before the mirror, turning this way and that. She noted the streamline figure, the flat chest, the sharp jaw. 

“A stunning vision of crimson,” she whispered lovingly to herself, arranging her hair in bloody waves over bare, freckled shoulders. “The personification of that passionate, _bewitching_ color, red. _Death!”_ Grelle finished with a wide, pointy grin and a flamboyant pose. 

“I can hear you, y’know,” came Ronald’s dry voice. He was waiting impatiently outside Grelle’s assigned dorm. “You coming or what?”

“You’re disrupting my _process,_ Ronald!” Grelle exclaimed, charging to the door and throwing it open. “I am a work of art, crafted by my own hands! I am my own da Vinci, my own Raphael!”

“You’re something,” Ronald agreed bemusedly. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Ronnie, your outfit is so thoughtful,” Grelle cooed as they left the dormitories. She poked his arm playfully. “So _generous.”_

He raised an eyebrow. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It’s so _boring!”_ Grelle beamed. “It makes me look all the more a _beautiful,_ scarlet flower.”

Ronald rolled his eyes. “I’m dressed _casually. You_ look like you’re ready for a ball.”

“Oh, you’re too sweet,” Grelle flustered, taking Ronald’s sarcastic remark as a compliment. “Ronnie-dear, every moment of life is _precious_ \-- we should dress our best for each one!”

“It’s funny hearing that from a dead person,” Ronald commented lightly. He offered Grelle his arm; she took it with a blinding smile. “Regardless, it’s great to see you in a good mood.”

_11:45 pm_

Grelle and Ronald shimmered into existence just outside of Stonewall, apparently unnoticed by any loitering mortals. 

Grelle took one look at the blaring lights of Stonewall’s towering, self-proclaiming sign and squealed. “Ronnie, this was such a good idea,” she whispered.

“There's brains behind these dazzling looks," he replied with a grin.

The door was bisected by a wooden panel. It slid open as Grelle and Ronald approached. A cautious pair of eyes peered through, glancing between the two Reapers.

"Hey there," Ronald said, offering a friendly wave. "May we come in?" 

The pair of eyes blinked once before the panel snapped close. The door opened; behind it, a butch woman offered them a nod. “Welcome to Stonewall,” she said with half a smile. “It’s three bucks and a signature.”

Ronald, playing the role of Grelle’s gentleman, paid up. His signature was a messy scrawl across the tally book; Grelle’s followed in loops and curves. She dotted the _i_ in Sutcliff with a heart.

“These’re good for two drinks,” the bouncer said, handing them each a ticket. As she let them pass, she winked at Grelle. “Have fun!”

“Wow,” Grelle said, fanning herself. “Women aren’t that bad, you know.”

“I know,” Ronald agreed enthusiastically.

_June 28th, 1969_

_12:00 am_

The inside of Stonewall Inn was dark and lined with colorful, effervescent lights. Each blink of the fluorescents illuminated a crowd of colorful, effervescent people. The air smelled of too many bodies dancing; the floor vibrated with music and heavy footfalls.

The phosphorescent eyes of two grim reapers observed the scene. 

“I’m getting a drink,” Ronald said, making a beeline for the bar. 

“Then will you dance with me?” Grelle asked, following. “I’ll pretend you’re a striking, handsome man and you can pretend you’re in my league.”

Ronald laughed. “You sure it isn’t the other way around, Senpai? Yeah, I’ll dance with you.”

The bar was managed by two handsome fellows in dark clothes. Grelle winked at the nearest one, resting her elbows on the bar. Finding it sticky, she quickly withdrew and smiled to hide a wince.

Each of their tickets was worth two drinks; Ronald exchanged his for two shots of vodka. He playfully slid one to Grelle, saying, “Bottoms up!”

Grelle had half a mind to ask for something a little more _refined_ than straight vodka, but she flashed Ronald a deadly grin and knocked it back. “You’ve had your drink,” she told Ronald, grabbing his hand and hauling him away. _“Straight vodka,_ honestly. You have no standards.”

“I wanna get tipsy! I don’t care how it tastes,” Ronald retorted.

Grelle suddenly turned on her heel; Ronald nearly ran into her chest. “You’ve never danced with me before, have you, Ronnie?” Grelle asked lasciviously. With her heels, she was taller than him. “A warning -- once you’ve started, you won’t wanna stop!” She winked and pulled him onto the busy dancefloor. 

Ronald went willingly, a little red in the face. 

_12:30 am_

Grelle strutted to the bar, Ronnie trailing in her wake. “Negroni,” she demanded, slapping her drink ticket onto the bar. “What about you, Ronnie?”

“Same,” Ronald said breathlessly, not sure what a Negroni was and not caring. 

Grelle turned to him, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “You seem dazed,” she observed with relish. 

“I kinda am,” Ronald admitted, his grin on the side of bashful. “You’re one of a kind, Grelle.”

Grelle winked. As the bartender delivered her Negronis, she said, “You’re not so bad yourself, darling.” 

“I thought I was boring and unexciting?” Ronald inquired, accepting one of the cherry-red drinks. 

“Well, you’re no Bassy. Remember him -- tall, dark, demonic?” Grelle snickered at Ronald’s pinched expression. “I’m _teasing,_ Ronnie. You’re too easy.” 

“I haven’t thought about that guy in years,” Ronald complained. “Man. Remember the silverware?”

“The silverware,” Grelle agreed. She shivered in delight. “Mm. Those _eyes.”_

Ronald shook his head and raised his glass to his mouth. “As I said -- one of a kind.” 

_1:00 am_

Many drinks later, Grelle said, “Have you seen the others?”

“What?” Ronald blinked at her, looking drunkenly disheveled. “Who?”

“Like --” Grelle nudged him and pointed across the bar. “That’s -- that’s a _man._ In a _dress.”_

It was indeed. “Yes,” Ronald nodded. “It could be a girl, though. Like, _you’re_ a girl.”

“Yes!” Grelle agreed ardently, raising her glass. “I _am,_ Ronnie. Thank you.”

They sat in companionable silence, each content with their acceptance of the other. 

Ronald broke the silence with a curious question. “How do you know? That you’re a girl?”

Grelle replied after a moment of thought. “I dunno.”

How do you explain the color of your hair? How do you explain your height? _My hair is red, I’m 5’9 in heels._ It’s undebatable, it’s irrevocable, it’s unquestionable, it’s true.

Grelle raised a sculpted eyebrow. She asked, “How do _you_ know you’re a guy?”

“Touché,” said Ronald. He glanced around, observing other patrons -- the men in dresses, the boys in makeup, the women in trousers. There was a strange anonymity in the boldness. "I think this is a gay bar," he said. 

Grelle erupted into laughter. 

"What?” Ronald exclaimed defensively. 

"Ronnie, I love you," Grelle said, wiping at her eyes. _"'I think it's a gay bar.'_ You're a treasure."

"Well, no one came out and _told_ me," Ronald pouted. "I had to deduce it, all smart-like." 

"Never change, Ronald," Grelle declared. 

_1:15_ _am_

A few minutes later, Ronald sighed and stated a fact. "Man, this month sucked.”

“A-fucking-men,” Grelle agreed. They lifted their respective drinks in a toast. 

Inspired, Ronald raised his beer once more. “A toast to you, Grelle Sutcliff, for restraining yourself from murder for 28 days.”

Grelle blushed. “It was difficult,” she admitted. She elevated her margarita. “A toast to _you,_ Ronnie Knox, for being a wonderful friend.”

They shared a grin before drinking.

“I learned it all from you, Senpai,” Ronald chirped, and that was when the lights blazed white. 

_1:20 am_

A yell pierced through the abrupt, confused silence: _“Police!_ We’re taking the place!”

The loud silence burst into irascible, panicked chatter. Dozens of people made a break for the windows and doors but found their paths blocked by law enforcement -- stolid, blue-clad men and women that seemingly appeared from the air. “Line up,” someone shouted. “IDs ready,” another demanded. 

The white lights and absence of music left Stonewall bare, stripped down to its unimpressive bones -- peeling black paint and molding wood, held together by spite and camaraderie. 

Out of sheer instinct, Grelle and Ronald cloaked themselves from human awareness. The panic of Stonewall buzzed around them in clouds of insecurity. 

Ronald stepped closer to his partner, nervous despite himself. “What’s happening?”

“It must be a police raid,” Grelle mused. Her gaze, hard as stone, flitted about the scene. Without other options, patrons had melted into obedient lines. 

_“Why?”_ Ronald complained -- nothing upset him more than a ruined night out. A second later, he answered his own question. “I guess alcohol’s illegal over here right now, isn’t it?”

“So’s homosexuality,” Grelle said darkly. 

They watched like flies on the wall, growing more restless the longer they observed the growing injustice. Female customers were handled roughly and fondled by the police. Anyone who resisted was knocked to the ground. 

Ronald turned to Grelle; he was surprised to see her pale and distant beneath her smeared makeup. “We don’t have to stay here,” he reminded her quietly, then followed her gaze.

They watched as those dressed in drag or cross-dressing were hauled to the bathrooms. “Yes, we do,” Grelle said. The line of her mouth turned sour. “They’re just... _letting_ themselves be dragged away.”

Ronald thought that was an awfully arrogant thing of Grelle to say, and almost said so. He also almost said: _why don’t you help them?_ But Ronald knew Grelle was terrified more than anything of another suspension, and interfering so directly with human affairs (again) would award Grelle with just that. He next thought of reminding her once more that this was not something they had to watch. 

He hesitated long enough that someone spoke in his place.

“Fuck. _Off!”_ Yelled a man in heels. Shortly after arose the specific yelp that followed being stabbed in the foot with a stiletto. 

“Oh,” Grelle vocalized, sounding cheered. “Nevermind.”

Maybe the true chaos began there; maybe it started a moment later, when those forced into single-file lines obstinately refused to present their IDs. 

At any rate, the volume of the bar continued to rise, entropic with shrieks and stubborn refusals and demands. Feet shuffled in stifled agitation; fingers snapped in patronizing commands. Crates of alcohol and clots of people were seized and tugged outside with the same level of care. 

“Let’s follow them,” Ronald suggested quietly to Grelle, indicating the mulish trickle of patrons into the street. Grelle nodded her agreement and touched his arm; in a glimmering instant, they were there. 

Ronald whistled at the conglomeration of observers. The neighbors had dripped into the street to see what the noise was about, and there was a _lot_ of noise; one of several cop cars had its sirens wailing and the inhabitants of Stonewall had not quieted. It looked like over a hundred people had gathered beneath Stonewall’s vibrant sign. 

Shocked by human boldness, Grelle and Ronald bled into the defiant crowd. A band of individuals had begun a line-dance; women and men alike blew acidic kisses to the cops; beer bottles and loose change flew like bullets through the air. 

“Humans are pretty dull, but they have their moments,” Ronald remarked, flashing an unseen smile to the man on his right -- _Gay power!_ the stranger yelled. “I wonder if anyone will die tonight.”

Grelle heard Ronald’s blithe comments as if through water. Her eyes were on a pair of cops, attempting to heave a butch woman into a police car. She escaped more than once, wielding her bound wrists like a club against her assailants. 

_“Oh deep in my heart, I do believe,”_ someone sang nearby. _“We shall overcome.”_

Grelle looked down. As though placed by fate, a brick rested beside her foot. It took only a thought for Grelle to find the brick in her hand. She tossed it from hand to hand, contemplating the dangerous weight.

“Senpai?” said Ronald warily. 

The woman broke from her captors a final time before she was literally thrown into the police car. She cried, “Why don’t you guys _do something?”_

Grelle lifted her arm. It was no death scythe, but this would do. 

_He. That thing. Mr. Sutcliff. He’s just a pervert; I’m afraid it may be contagious. Him, his. You customized it yourself, sir? Grelle’s a_ girl? _Sorry, sir._

“MOTHERFUCKER,” Grelle screamed, and whipped the brick into a shattering windshield. 

And then the scene exploded. 

_June 29th, 1969_

Ronald said, “That really wasn’t what I had in mind for last night.”

Grelle said, “It was better than anything you could have planned, darling.”

“Well, as long as you’re happy.”

“I am. Aren’t _you_ a gentleman, Ronnie.”

“I am! And you’re infamous. Last night is all over the papers, thanks to you and your brick-throwing skills.”

“I’m a woman of many talents! But I don’t think I deserve all the credit. Maybe only 75% of the credit.”

“Modest as ever, Senpai.”

“It would have happened with or without me, is what I’m saying. I’m but a crimson catalyst for change.”

“Oh boy.”

“I’d watch your tone, young man. I could leave you here. I could make you take that 24-hour plane ride.”

“Naw, you’d miss me. You ready to go?”

“I’m ready for _you_ to show your senior some respect! But otherwise, yes. Grab on, darling.”

_June 30th, 1969_

Grelle’s first day back looks like this:

“Good morning, Miss Sutcliff!” Says an intern. 

“Welcome back, Grelle,” Alan tells her in passing, waving a friendly hand. “Are those shoes new? Very cute.”

Othello waves at her from across the cafe, so excited that he spills his tea. “Miss Grelle! You should see the body I just got.”

In the copy room, Eric punches her arm. “Hey, it’s good to see ya.”

At lunch, an ebullient Othello slides into the seat beside her with pictures of said body. 

In the afternoon, William pops his head into her office. “Welcome back, Grelle. No, please stay seated.” Insert trademark sigh. “I’m just saying hello. Please stop reading into things.”

Ronald pulls ahead of her in Candy Crush at half-past two, which is annoying. 

She reaps in the afternoon, leaving smears of scarlet in her wake. “No special remarks!” She chirps to the pigeons that descry her work. 

In the evening, she sends a candid picture of William to Aubrey Montgomery. _ASDFGHJKL,_ he sends in reply. 

As she prepares to clock out, Ronald says, “It’s good to be home, huh?”

Grelle smiles at him, wondering if her easy relief is as tangible as it feels. It’s a cloud that has colored her day a soft pink. “It is,” she says.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so very much for your time! i love comments and kudos ALMOST as much as i love grelle. <3


End file.
